


when he talks (i hear his ghosts)

by hopefulundertone



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Graphic Description, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulundertone/pseuds/hopefulundertone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford isn't as okay as he pretends, and the cracks begin to show. Stan just wants his brother to be alright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when he talks (i hear his ghosts)

**Author's Note:**

> This is partly au, in the sense that Stan and Ford have settled their differences, and based on the idea that there is no way Ford could possibly have endured what he did (judging from Fiddleford) and been a-okay, as he pretends.
> 
> Title from Wires, by the Neighbourhood.

Stan sat up, ripped out of his sleep abruptly by what had to be the worst sound in the world. It howled through the house again, raw and almost primal, a cross between a roar and a scream, and he was out of his bed immediately, pulling on his dressing gown and stumbling out onto the landing. The kids stood there too, rubbing at their eyes sleepily and staring up at him in confusion.  
“Grunkle Stan? What’s going on?” Mabel’s voice was filled with concern despite the slight slurring of her voice, and Dipper looked up at him as if expecting answers.  
“I don’t know.” But he had a very good idea. Taking both by their respective hands, Stan advanced down the stairs to the deserted gift shop, wincing as the sound grew louder, and punching in the code to the vending machine. The screaming stopped immediately as the door hissed open, and they descended quickly, Mabel clenching his hand a bit harder than strictly necessary. Still, the sight that awaited them was well deserving of it.  
The basement lab was dark, lit only by a few bluish lamps that Stan was willing to bet were alien. Ford had managed to drag a brass bedstead and a mattress down the stairs along with an impressive amount of bedding and several other living implements, but other than that, the basement was barren of anything remotely home-like, instead containing at least fifteen different experiments at once, all surrounding a large desk covered in stacks and stacks of paper scribbled on in a messy scrawl Stan couldn’t ever remember his brother having.  
And there, sitting cross-legged on the bed was Ford, eyes bloodshot. He managed a weak smile, and nodded to them jerkily. “Sorry if I, ah, woke you. Just nightmares. My apologies. It won’t happen again.” A few gears cranked rustily in Stan’s sleep-addled brain, and he turned around, dragging the children back up the stairs before kneeling to get on eye level with them. “Kids, go back to your rooms, and no matter what you hear, don’t come down. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, plug your ears, whatever. Just don’t come down.”  
“But Grunkle Stan-!” They chorused in unison, but he cut them off with a wave of his hand. “Listen, your great-uncle Ford’s been through some rough times, and he’s earned the right to a few nightmares. But he doesn’t want you to see him that way, yeah?” Mabel blinked and frowned, but Dipper’s eyes lit up with understanding.  
“But-”  
“Let’s go, Mabel.” He took her by the hand and nodded to Grunkle Stan. “You won’t see us down here until morning.”  
“Thanks, kids.” He walked back down the stairs, listening until the hiss of the door closing blocked out Dipper’s quiet explanations.

Back in the basement, Ford was lying down again, back facing the entrance and seemingly asleep, but the constant tremors that shook his frame betrayed him. Stan sat down on the edge of the bed, only to jump up again as Ford scrambled backwards, as far away from him as the bedframe allowed. “It’s okay, Ford, it’s just me. Nobody else.” His brother’s shoulders relaxed fractionally at this, which he counted a victory. Slowly, he sat down again, and faced carefully away from Ford. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of the blanket as his brother shifted. “Are you okay? Do you need to, like, talk about it?” All he received was a mumble, but the tone was clear: there would be no discussions about it tonight. “Do you need anything?” Again, a mumble, and Stan recoiled from the irony; his brother had always been the eloquent one out of the two, but here he was, doing all the talking while his brother...mumbled? Squinting, he turned around, and immediately reached forward to wrestle Ford’s fist from his mouth, which he’d apparently been biting to keep quiet. Stan suppressed a curse and examined the six-fingered hand he held. Blood flowed steadily from a half-ring of teeth marks that curved around the fingers that had already begun to turn blue and purple, and he winced at the sight. He hadn’t seen minor injuries this brutal since his boxing lessons back in the day, but he still remembered how to treat them; snagging a first-aid kit from the top of the bedside table (Stan noted its presence grimly, clearly, this was far from the first time), he pulled out a few wipes, cleaning off the blood before breaking out the antiseptic. Ford gave a hoarse, quickly stifled scream as the alcohol began to burn, and Stan grimaced, but bandaged it up anyway. There was no point leaving a job undone. When he finished, Ford snatched his hand back, folding his limbs into the smallest shape he could possibly form, and Stan couldn’t help but ache for the broken man his brother had become.  
“Ford, it’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re here now, with us; we’re your family. You’re among family now. Nobody will hurt you anymore. No one can get to you. You’re safe.” Stan wasn’t sure what else he said, mindless words murmured over and over in the most soothing tone he could manage, but it seemed to work, and Ford relaxed slowly, inch by inch. By contrast, his sobs became less restrained; loud, ravaged, raw sounds that made Stan hurt in a way he hadn’t for over thirty years now, and his breaths were ragged, as if drawn only by great effort. Stan didn’t doubt they were. Thirty years in an entire multiverse of insanity, and it was only so long before the facade began to crack.  
They sat for longer, but Ford’s breathing remained uneven, choppy like waves crashing against a hull, and Stan took a gamble, reclaiming his brother’s hand. Ford immediately tensed up, but Stan didn’t let go, and eventually, he relaxed again.  
“I-it w-was…” The rasp surprised Stan, but he looked up at Ford, who had his eyes closed. “It was awful. I went insane, Ley. I went insane, and then I wasn’t, but the things I saw, oh god, the things I saw.” His voice tailed off, and Ford’s shaking grew more pronounced. Stan couldn’t help it; he pulled Ford closer, wrapping his arms around him. Ford startled, quivering like a frightened rabbit, but Stan persisted, rubbing circles along his shoulders. After an immeasurably long time, Ford’s breathing began to even out and he slumped back into Stan’s hold.

They woke the next morning like that, Stan wrapped around Ford protectively and Ford curled into himself. That afternoon, Stan helped him put up soundproofers around the lab. It was the least he could do. Other than that, they didn’t speak about it again, although sometimes, when Stan was holding Ford back in the basement and he could feel his brother’s sobs wrack his body, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would take, what he would do to restore Ford to his old self. Just one small deal, maybe?


End file.
